


The Fifth Time

by thewaterfalcon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Hansy - Freeform, Harry x Pansy, Oral Sex, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 19:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11698788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaterfalcon/pseuds/thewaterfalcon
Summary: After breaking up with Ginny, Harry finds himself with a surprising meeting...which leads to an even more surprising evening...





	The Fifth Time

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [CanonFixFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/CanonFixFest) collection. 



> **Prompt:**  
>  Pansy reconciles for trying to hand Harry over to Voldemort and they build a relationship after he breaks up with Ginny
> 
> A massive thank you to my best friend **PierreJ92** for betaing.

The  first time  he sees her, it’s almost a year after. Their eyes lock and their heads nod in an awkward unison from one corner of the bar to the other. Both alone; both finding, or losing, something - maybe everything - in the transparent companion which held their respective drinks. He chooses an ale, although he’s not entirely certain why, only that it’s dark and bitter and therefore seems an entirely fitting match to his post break-up temperament. She’s sipping from a tumbler of some indistinguishable spirit combined with a correspondingly indistinguishable clear mixer. Considering her own demeanour is unreadable at best, her choice of beverage seems to be an equally fitting match to her own temperament.

 

They don’t speak. Other than the nod and the brief locking of her eyes in his, they don’t...anything. She doesn’t look his way as she stands and begins to make her way through the throng of punters. He does, but only enough to watch as the jet black back of her head disappears into the crowd.

 

* * *

 

The  second time, only a few days later, he runs into her - in every sense of the phrase. She’s rushing, something which seems so utterly un-Pansy Parkinson that the very fact itself startles Harry more than the realisation that he’s just crashed head-first into the former Slytherin. She draws a sharp hiss of breath as she staggers backwards, her palm clamps to her forehead as her mouth mutters obscenities. Harry’s own hand is pressing against his chin, where the stinging from the collision is radiating from.

 

“Potter?” she blurts, blinking at his bemused expression, She’s clearly just as shocked as he is by their chance encounter. Harry raises one eyebrow. She doesn’t _look_ full of the contempt and mockery he’d come to expect from six years of education alongside Pansy Parkinson, but then again, Harry frowns, the Pansy he remembered may be sarcastic and even cruel, but she was never the type to wear her true venom on her sleeve. Much like a rose, he knows her thorns are hidden.            

 

Their eyes meet for the second time in one week. “Alright?” She looks both shocked and positively appalled at his greeting, as though the mere mention of any casual niceties between the two is repugnant. And then, as quickly as it appears, her expression alters, her face altogether softening. Her muttered words are as surprising as the shift in the green of her iris’ is slight: swift, and were you not paying attention enough, easily missable.

 

“Would you like to go for a coffee?”

 

* * *

 

 

The  third time, at least, is planned. He arrives early, still not entirely certain why his answer was yes. He’s never particularly been a fan of coffee, the taste often leaving his mouth feeling funny afterwards, and nor has ever particularly been a fan of Pansy. He orders the hot drink as sweet as possible, with sugar and syrup and more milk than is necessary whilst he waits.

 

When Pansy arrives, she orders hers the complete opposite. “Black, no sugar,” she instructs the waitress as she avoids Harry’s gaze. For a while they don’t speak; Pansy keeps her hands, eyes and poise pointed directly forward, an icy stillness present in her frame. And once again, they are opposites; his legs bounce haphazardly and his eyes dart from one part of the cafe to another in no discernable pattern.

 

“How are you?” Harry eventually asks, when he can bear her dead silence no longer.

 

She arches one perfect brow in one perfect upwards motion and offers the smallest, minute trace of the closest thing to a smile she seems able to muster. “I’m well, thank you Potter, and yourself?” It’s so formal that Harry has to fight back the urge to laugh.

 

“I’m alright thanks, you do know you can call me Harry, right?”

 

“I’m not entirely sure that suits you, Potter” she replies, dryly, but with an air of thoughtfulness to her tone, as though she holds it in deep consideration. Harry merely snorts at her words.

 

“Better stick with ‘ _Potter_ ’, then.”

 

He doesn’t miss the trace of smirk present upon her deep burgundy lips. “I agree.” She sips her coffee and regards him, coolly, across the small circular table top. “I wanted to apologise,” she says, eventually. Harry’s shock at her statement must have been easily noticeable, for she narrows her eyes and quips, “You don’t have to be too shocked, Potter, I _am_ capable of apologising.”

 

Harry splutters at her boldness. “Oh, no...of course, I wasn’t, I wouldn’t-”

 

Pansy flicks her hand in the air, as though batting his words away and simply replies, “Regardless, I was wrong to suggest that you should have got handed over like that...before the battle.”

 

Harry opens his mouth to rebuttal, to inform Pansy that it hadn’t mattered, that they had been on the edge of a fight that had shook their world and he _gets it_ , he gets _why_ she had done what she did, but he closes his mouth, having not uttered a word of it. Pansy’s green eyes, which he notices for the first time, were a similar shade to his own, told an entirely different story to her steely mannerisms. In her eyes, he sees just how much it had taken for her to say that which had flown from her lips, seemingly without effort., because to Pansy, Harry quickly realises, apologising to him means a great deal, and it’s something she needs him to hear; take in and understand and accept without a brush off.  And so, that is what he does.

 

“Thank you, Pansy.” She nods curtly at his words and once again her eyes betray her, for this time they show her relief.

 

“I’ll go, then,” she says, reaching down for her handbag, and Harry doesn’t know why, he should nod, knowing that their interactions have reached the end of her plan for this meeting, but he doesn’t.

 

“You don’t have to...go, I mean, finish your coffee, at least. We can talk a bit, if you want?”

 

She stares at him for a moment, obviously taken aback at his invitation, before he notices her features briefly softening, and for a second looks yet again so, incredibly un-Pansy, that were he standing, he would have taken a step back. “Okay Potter, you’re on.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You know, Potter, I’ve been terribly patient with all this chit chat about,” she begins to tick off each topic using her fingers, “work and Hogwarts, and Merlin help us, _the weather,_ so I’m going to _need_ put out of my misery.”

 

Harry struggles to keep his face straight at her words. “I didn’t realise my company was _misery-_ inducing.”

 

“Oh, it’s positively tragic,” Pansy replies, “so puh-lease, if it’s not too much trouble, tell me why she-weasel dumped you.”

 

Harry, beginning to choke on his second coffee, doesn’t even know why he’s surprised at her words, he really shouldn’t be, this is Pansy, after all. He is, however, a tad insulted at her assumption over who had ended he and Ginny’s relationship.

 

“As it happens,” Harry begins, narrowing his eyes in a feigned annoyance, which she seems to enjoy, “I was the one who ended it.”

 

Pansy raises her eyebrows. “Well, that is surprising.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Well, it shows you have a spine, Potter, who knew?”

 

“Oh, yes, I forgot that defeating Voldemort didn’t require a spine,” Harry shoots back, not quite sure if he’s enjoying, or simply putting up with their back and forth at this point.

 

Pansy lets out an over-exaggerated sigh at his words. “Merlin, Potter, must you mention _that_ every two minutes...so self-centred,” she tuts.

He opens his mouth to rebuff her statement and proclaim that he’s barely spoken of it, let alone to her, but the brief wink she shoots him, along with the way she playfully bites her bottom lip silences him for a moment. Forcing some Gryffindor courage forth, Harry, leans forward and says, “Do you know what I think?”

 

“More than likely something terribly self-fulfilling.”

 

“I think that you’re enjoying playing with me.”

 

“Oh, Potter, you really think _this_ is me playing with you? That’s cute,” she replies, trying to further chastise him. “If I truly wanted to play with you, you wouldn’t know what had hit you.”

 

Harry leans back, his elbows on the arms of his chair. Bringing his fingers together, he regards Pansy. “I think you underestimate me.”

 

Pansy halts for a moment, before mimicking his position. “And _I_ think that you _want_ me to play with you...properly.”

 

Harry’s eyes linger briefly over the exposed expanse of pale that is her slender neck, curtained by her trademark black locks. An expensive looking chain hangs there, and, with no prompting, Harry’s mind suddenly wants to see Pansy wearing only that chain. “I think I want that, too,” he replies, his voice husky as her eyes run over his face, before meeting his own.

 

“Well then, you’d better ask me out again then, hadn’t you?”

 

* * *

 

 

The fourth time is the first time he _really_ questions what he is doing. As he pulls on his shirt and checks his reflection as he prepares to leave his flat, he wonders what on Earth he’s doing, going out to dinner with Pansy Parkinson, of all people. _Rebound_ , he supposes, _must be a rebound_. The thought doesn’t make him feel particularly good, but it doesn’t jar him, either. Mostly because he simply doesn’t believe it true, despite knowing logically, it probably is.

 

He arrives early, just as before, and after a quick scan of a leather-bound drinks menu, orders a bottle of champagne that he regrets selecting the second the words leave his mouth. He doesn’t even _like_ champagne.

 

The voice behind him doesn’t even try to mask its shock. “Champagne, Potter? Now, _that_ is a surprise.” Harry turns his head and curses the way his eyes automatically widen and his jaw naturally falls open at the sight of her. _Real smooth, Harry._ She notices his reaction, _how could she not?_ Harry internally curses himself, _pretty sure everyone in this place noticed._ Pansy nods to the waiter who had directed her to the table and takes her seat. “No need to get up to pull my chair out, Potter,” she drawls, much to Harry’s mortification.

 

“Oh, Gods, I’m so sorry, I can...I didn’t, it’s just you look-”

 

She raises one hand to halt his words and he stops immediately, mid-sentence. “I was _obviously_ joking.” She gives him the second honest to God proper smile she ever has and laughs, and Harry can’t help but swallow, mostly with relief, but a tiny bit with how taken aback he is with how lovely the sound is. He has to work hard to stop his eyes from wandering over what of her upper body isn’t concealed by the table, he hadn’t got nearly as much of a look as the dress she was wearing deserved. And, he realises with another gulp, that she’s wearing the same chain around her neck as she was at the cafe.

 

“Now, what were you about to splutter about how I look?” Pansy shoots him a wicked, teasing expression.

 

Harry sighs through his nose, steadies himself and his breathing, _you’ve fought Voldemort, don’t go coward now!_ He looks into her eyes - green, _so_ green, and doesn’t tear his own away as he replies, “Only that you look breathtaking.”

 

Pansy raises both eyebrows, not hiding how impressed she is with his answer in the smirk now present on her face. “Breathtaking?” she replies, “and _that’s_ why you had such trouble with your breathing for a second there, correct?”

Harry knows she’s toying with him, but he can’t bring himself to even try to win at her little game. Tonight, she looks every part the winner, or perhaps he does, being the one seen with her. “Correct,” he informs her, “that was entirely your doing.”

 

She takes a sip of their newly delivered champagne, holding the flute between perfectly manicured, scarlet fingernails. He notes the colour. “Nice nails,” he says with a slight raise of his own eyebrow. He sees her eyes flicker between her hand and his face.

 

“Ah, the red, of course,” she eyes him pointedly “well, they weren’t originally going to be red, but I figured I should match.” Harry’s brow creases slightly, her skintight dress is as black as her hair, _perhaps she means her shoes_. Nonetheless, he queries.

 

“Match?”

 

“Keep telling me how _breathtaking_ I look, Potter, and you might get to see just _what_ , exactly, my nails are matched with.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Bill, please?” Harry croaks at a passing waiter, his eyes glazing slightly as Pansy’s foot makes its way slowly up the inside of his thigh. Pansy’s head is cocked, her chin resting against the palm of her hand. She purposefully looks as nonchalant as she possibly can and he curses her for it.

 

“I’m going to make you pay for this.”

 

Pansy looks aghast, “You’d make the woman pay for your meal, Potter, I mean, I’m all for equal rights but Merlin, you really are something else, aren’t you? That’s just rude.”

 

Harry glares at her as the throaty sigh he lets out deceives him. “You bloody well _know_ what I’m talking about, and it isn’t the meal,” he grumbles as her foot makes its way to his semi-hard cock. He watches her bite her bottom lip, _Gods, she’s got to stop doing that,_ as she feels him beneath his, now rather uncomfortable, trousers, before promptly removing her foot from him and abruptly standing.

 

“Just nipping to freshen up,” she says, cheerily and flashes him a wide smile, barely concealing the mischievous wrinkling of her nose.

 

Harry pays the bill, and with much-strained effort and forcing images of Pansy from his mind, they manage to exit the restaurant with most of his dignity still intact. They’re barely outside when her lips are brushing against his, and his hands are gently stroking the fabric of her dress over her waist. “My place?” Harry enquires between unsuccessful attempts to plant a proper kiss on Pansy’s mouth, “you minx.”

She flashes him another wide smile after pulling back just as their lips touched, making Harry groan in frustration. “What’s wrong, Potter? I thought you _wanted_ me to play with you? If you think you can’t hack it, then I can-”

 

Her words are stolen by a determined Gryffindor, as Harry, who had run his hands upwards and began to weave his fingers through her hair, had managed to force her head upwards, to meet his. “I told you,” he says, triumphantly, “you’re underestimating me.” Pansy narrows her eyes and Harry feels her manicured fingertips begin to trace along the area just above the top of his belt. “Side me along, _right now_ , Potter.” And he does.

 

They apparate into Harry’s flat wrapped tightly together, her hands are holding his belt, pulling him closer, into her, and his own hands are once again roaming around her hair. Their lips are moving as one and their tongues are flicking against each other’s, in sync. Pansy breaks the kiss first, and leans back from Harry, slightly. “Gods, Potter, this is positively _ghastly_ ,” she teases as she looks around and begins to walk towards the nearby door. Harry, right behind her, places his hands on either side of her stomach and starts to plant a series of kisses over her left shoulder.

 

“You should feel right at home then,” he murmurs.

 

She chuckles at his comeback and promptly throws her head backwards over Harry’s own shoulder. His lips find their way to the side of Pansy’s neck just as she rolls her hips backwards, her backside grazing his already-hard cock. “Gods,” he hisses.

 

“Nope,” she replies wickedly, “just me.”

 

Harry snorts and begins to guide her forward, his hands still gripping her sides. “Bedroom is just through there,” he nods through the open door, where a hallway could be seen and another door, also ajar, is present on the far wall.

 

“Lovely,” Pansy says as she turns on her high heels, her hands begin to roam over Harry’s chest and his black shirt. “You know, Potter, this is actually a nice shirt, was it expensive?”

 

Harry breathes deeply as he drinks in the sight of her, her hair is slightly mussed up and her lipstick is now smudged, but otherwise, she still looks perfectly put together. “It was, actually,” he answers.

  
“Oh,” Pansy replies, grabbing two fistfuls at either side of the buttons as she does, “that’s too bad,” she swiftly pulls the shirt open, ripping each button from its hole, and many out of the shirt entirely, as she does. Harry watches, unable to care even one iota about his more than likely ruined shirt. “Wow, Potter,” Pansy observes as her eyes fly over his newly revealed torso, “being an Auror is clearly working for you.”

 

Harry sniggers darkly as he removes the remainder of the shirt. “You’re not wrong there, I’ve learnt lots of tricks,” he says. Instantly, he reaches downwards and wraps his arms, upside down, around Pansy’s midriff, relishing in the uncharacteristic squeal she lets out as he picks her up, effortlessly, throws her over his shoulder and marches towards his bedroom. “You underestimate me, Pansy. I keep telling you.”

 

He launches her, ungraciously, onto his bed and she looks up at him with an air of disbelief, her mouth hanging open, her eyes wide. “Never, in my-”

 

He doesn’t allow her to finish the sentence, having kicked his shoes off, he had begun to climb atop the bed, and her, the second he’d let her go. His lips meet hers in a haze of passion and surprise and heat. He expects her to draw back, not that she’d have an easy job, lying on a bed, but he doesn’t doubt for a second that she could if she wanted to. Luckily for him, she doesn’t want to, and even luckier for him, she, easily one of the most beautiful women in his world, moans a sound of pure pleasure and need and want against his mouth.

 

Their bodies are writhing, grinding together and her arms snake their way over his shoulders, she digs her nails into various points of his flesh as she does, before settling them around his neck, her hands running through his hair as she moves beneath him. His own hands find their way to the sides of her thighs, something she seems pleased about, considering the increasing intensity of her kisses as he grips his fingers into the tops of her legs. As though reading his mind, she moves her legs upwards, winding them around Harry’s waist, locking them together. He groans at the movement and his hips thrust forward, desperate to feel her, the perfect her that needs to be out of her dress,

regardless of how sexy it makes her look.

 

His fingertips move upwards and find the bottom of her dress, which has been pushed upwards and is currently sitting bunched very high up Pansy’s thighs. “I think,” he says between kisses, “that _this,”_ he bunches the fabric in his fists, “needs to go.”

 

Pansy doesn’t answer, instead, he feels her lips smirk against his and her palms are suddenly pushing his chest, signalling him to sit up. Obliging, albeit reluctantly, Harry pushes himself backwards, resting on his knees. Pansy looks up at him from beneath long lashes and blinks, biting her lip, before she sits up, planting a few short kisses on his chest before she shuffles from beneath him, bringing her lips to his ear she whispers, seductively, “Lie down.”

 

Harry runs his hands through her hair once more and brings her face to his for one long, lingering kiss, before shifting and lying on his back. He props himself up on his elbows and watches Pansy, who has begun to kneel upright and is unzipping the side of her dress. She does so slowly, tantalisingly, her eyes refusing to leave his face, wanting to see his expression as she reveals her underwear; red, to match her nails, to him. He gulps at the sight of her and thanks whatever deity is responsible for his current, pleasing situation.

 

Pansy smiles, far sweeter than is normal for her, and Harry watches, intrigued, as she hops from the bed, kicking her shoes off as she does and makes her way to the foot of Harry’s bed. He raises an eyebrow as she climbs back on and begins to crawl, all the while staring up at him, slowly upwards, towards him.

 

She slithers up his body, before eventually she’s straddled over him, his boxers and her thong are all that separates the two of them. Once in position, Harry expects her to lower her mouth to his, but she doesn’t, she does something different entirely: she begins to _move._ Harry supposes it could be classed as dancing, the way her body sways over his, but she doesn’t need music, in fact, she’s so stunningly, achingly amazing, that she doesn’t need anything but herself.  

 

He’s so immersed, so mesmerised by the way she moves, that at first he doesn’t notice her hands snake around her back. He _does_ realise, however, when she pulls first one arm, and then the other from her bra, before tossing the garment over her shoulder. The groan he omits at the sight should have embarrassed him, but Harry is having trouble feeling anything other than arousal in this moment and brings his fingertips to graze over her thighs, an act that causes her to let out a soft cry. His hands sweep gently over her soft skin and begin trailing their way over her stomach. He rubs the top of her underwear as she continues to sexily writhe above him.

 

Harry lets out a gasp as Pansy suddenly lowers herself downwards, her bare chest mere centimetres away from his own. His hands move upwards over her torso, making their way towards her soft, exposed breasts. Taking one in each hand, he slowly, and with a number of soft gasps from Pansy, explores the way she shivers slightly as he takes her nipples between his fingers. “Gods,” she groans, breathily.

 

“Nope,” he replies with a grin, “just me,” before raising his mouth to meet one of her nipples, running his tongue deftly over the rosy peak. She doesn’t retort as she usually would, instead she pushes her chest further into his face, prompting his tongue to flick over alternating peaks are a faster pace.

 

“Yes, Potter,” Pansy moans, and he becomes aware that she had begun to move her hips again, finding the tip of her erection and pushing against it as she does. “Fuck, yes!”

 

Harry responds with a moan of his own and his mouth leaves her breasts at the insistence presented to him in the form of her hands gripping either side of his head as she directs it towards her own. She meets his mouth with hers and kisses him, hungrily, as the pace of her hips increases. One of Harry’s hands takes over where his mouth had left off, and teases Pansy’s nipples between his fingers, the other beginning to move down Pansy’s body, coming to rest against the sliver of red fabric, which, he realises happily, is absolutely drenched.

 

She cries out as his fingers begin to stroke her over her thong. “Well well,” Harry mumbles against her mouth, “you are very, _very_ wet, Pansy.” He expects her to retort with a quip of some kind, but it appears there is a way to silence Pansy’s dry attitude, after all. Her response, however, is far, _far_ more pleasing to Harry than any comeback she could have delivered.

 

“It’s _all_ for you,” she says, between kisses.

 

“Mmmm,” he replies as he quickens his pace up and down her slit. “My fingers are getting soaked, even _through_ your underwear,” he begins to manoeuvre the pair of them sideways and Pansy relents, allowing herself to be rolled onto her back. She looks up at Harry, who remains on his side, facing her, propped up on one elbow. “I wonder,” he says, eyes staring into hers, “how you _taste.”_

 

She smirks and grabs his wrist before directing his hand once again to her soaking core and lifting it upwards, bringing his middle finger to her own lips and covering them in her own arousal. “Why don’t you kiss me and find out?”

 

Harry doesn't think he’s ever had a more erotic experience. His tongue flicks over her lips between kisses and only his and Pansy’s moans break the silence. “Well?” she questions, her mouth twisting into a smile as Harry continues to plant kisses on every part of her he can reach. “Not sure,” he murmurs against her right breast, before he begins to kiss his way down every inch of her body, “I’m going to need a better taste, I think,” he says, somewhere around her navel.

 

“Well,” Pansy replies, her fingertips brushing through his hair, “ who am I to deny you th-” unable to continue her words as Harry’s hands yanked her underwear aside, his tongue running up the length of her slit with one, definite stroke and landing on her clit. Pansy cries out in pleasure as Harry begins to flick his tongue over her most sensitive point, relishing the way her nails dig into his skull as he does.

 

Harry’s hands curl around each side of her thong, and, remembering briefly how she had done the same to his shirt earlier, feels no guilt in tearing the lacy, red garment from her body. He’s not entirely sure that Pansy notices as he continues his tongue’s assault on her clitoris as she writhes beneath him, the noises that she’s crying out almost enough to push himself over the edge. Her moaning increases in both intensity and volume as he pushes first one, and then two fingers inside of her and curls them slightly. It’s enough, apparently, for Pansy, who is positively screaming by this point. Her orgasm crescendos over both of them with a scream of, “POTTER!” and a wave of clear fluid over his fingers. He gives her one last, lingering lick, which causes her to convulse beneath him.

 

“Merlin, Potter,” Pansy gasps, seemingly unable to move. Harry chuckles as he crawls back up to meet her mouth in a searing kiss. “Hmmm, I do taste good,” she observes.

 

“Only you could possibly get away with saying that,” Harry replies before he dips his mouth to hers once more and steals not one, but two more kisses.

 

“Hmmm,” Pansy hums against his mouth, “I think I’ll go to sleep now,” she says, playfully, as she feigns falling into unconsciousness.

 

“Ha!” Harry replies, “I don’t think so, Parkinson. Get on your knees.”

 

“Well, looks who thinks he’s suddenly in charge.”

“Pah!” Harry spits, “you’ve been under my charge for a while now, it would seem I alone possess the skills to silence that dirty mouth of yours,” he pauses, “The sarcastic part of it, anyway.”

 

Pansy looks first aghast and then impressed. “Not bad, Potter, you’re learning.”

 

Harry scoffs. “Only a minute ago I had you _screaming_ my name, now, get. On. Your. Knees.” She looks at him with an air of arousal again and wordlessly positions as he demands, on all fours, her behind directly in front of his impressed gaze.

 

“Like this?”

 

Harry brings the palm of his hand to meet her left cheek, causing Pansy to shriek in surprise. “I didn’t have you down as the spanking type, Potter.”

 

As he gets into position, using some of her arousal to coat his very hard cock, Harry replies, “How many times...Miss Underestimating.” She doesn’t reply in more than a soft cry as he slowly thrusts into her for the first time.

 

“Oh...oh, Potter!”

 

“Pansy,” is all Harry manages to respond as he begins to increase the speed of his thrusts. She feels as she looks...breathtaking, and before long he’s pounding into her, her beautiful behind providing a pleasing view and her moans, accompanied by his own, are music enough for his ears.

 

He comes in a burst of fireworks and sensations of pure pleasure.

 

* * *

 

 

The  fifth time  he sees her he doesn’t allow her the chance of a witty remark.

 

The  fifth time  he sees her he rushes to her as though scared she’s going to run away.

 

The  fifth time  he sees her he brings his lips to hers and kisses her like it’s the last time he’ll get to.

 

“We’re really doing this?” she asks, her usual confidence slipping just for a fraction, just for him.

 

“Like I said in the owls-”

 

She laughs, interrupting, “ _So_ many owls!”

 

“Only if _you_ want to, you know I do,” he smiles.

 

“No more ridiculous month-long Auror trips?”

 

“Not for at least six months, no.”

 

She regards him for a second. “Then I guess we’re really doing this.”

 

The  fifth time  he sees her, she agrees to be his girlfriend.

 

He kisses her. “We’re really doing _us_?”

 

“Well,” she replies, thoughtfully, as she takes his hand in hers, “I’ll be doing you, and you, you lucky, lucky man, will be doing me!”

 

Harry rolls his eyes as they set off down the riverbank. “Do you know what, Potter?”

 

“What?”

 

“Strangely enough, you were actually right about something. I did, in fact, underestimate you.”

 

The End.

 


End file.
